SPRING TIME

In the winter dawn Garin rose, saddled his horse, and, mounting, rode from that place. He travelled through burned and wasted country, and he saw many a piteous sight. But folk that were left were building anew, and the sky was bright and the sunshine good. He went by the ruins of Raimbaut’s keep, and at last he came to Castel-Noir.

Foulque lived and the black tower stood. News of salvation had run like wildfire. Garin found Foulque out-of-doors, old and meagre men and young lads with him. The dozen huts that sheltered by the black castle, sheltered still. The fields that it claimed had gone undevastated. “Garin’s luck!” said Foulque; whereupon old Jean crossed himself for fear that Sir Foulque had crossed the luck.—But the young and middle-aged men who had gone to war for Roche-de-FrÊne had not yet returned. Some would not return. The women of the huts looked haunted, and though the children played, they did not do so freely. But the war had ended, and some would come back, and Christmas-tide was at hand and the sun shone on the brown fields.

Foulque saw Garin coming. He put his hand above his eyes. “Peste!” he said. “I always had good sight—what’s the matter now? Look, boy, for my eyes blur!”

They all looked, then they cried, “Sir Garin!” and the younger rushed down to the road.

That day and night passed. The folk of Castel-Noir had liking for Sir Foulque, and that despite some shrewdness of dealing and a bitter wit. But they were becoming aware that they loved Sir Garin. He stood and told them of how this man had done and how that, of two brave deeds of Sicart’s, and how Jean the Talkative talked but did well. He told them who, to his knowledge, had quitted this life; and he spoke not like a lord but like a friend to those who upon that telling broke into mourning. He could not tell them how life and death stood now among Castel-Noir men, for he had been away from Roche-de-FrÊne. Castel-Noir came to understand that he had been upon some service for the princess, and that that explained why there was with him neither squire nor man. To Foulque that evening in the hall, by the fire, he told in part the story of what the princess had wrought for Roche-de-FrÊne.

Foulque drew deeper breath. The colour came into his withered cheek, he twisted in his chair. “I heard rumours when Aquitaine lifted and went away, and Montmaure slunk back—but my habit is to wait for something more than rumours!... That is a brave lady—a brave adventure! By the mass! When I was young that would have stirred me!”

Garin laughed at him. “It stirs you now, Foulque!”

Foulque would not grant that. But even while he denied, he looked less crippled and shrivelled. “You did your devoir also.... Audiart the Wise—Well, she may be so!”

“She is so,” said Garin.

He slept that night, stirred in the early morning, rose, and, dressing, called to Sicart’s son in the courtyard to bring his horse. Old Pierre gave him wheaten bread and a bowl of milk. Foulque, wrapped in his furred mantle, came from the hall and talked with him while he ate and drank. The sun at the hill-tops, he rode down the narrow way from the black tower and was lost to sight in the fir wood. He rode until he reached a certain craggy height of earth from which might be viewed the road by which the Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne must approach Our Lady in Egypt. The height was shaggy with tree and bush, it overhung the way, commanding long stretches to either hand. Dismounting, he tied his horse in a small, thick wood at the back of the hill, then climbed afoot to the rough and broken miniature plateau atop. Even as he came to this he saw upon the western stretch of the road two horsemen, and presently made out that they were men of Beauvoisin’s sent ahead. They passed beneath him, cantered on, faces set for Our Lady in Egypt.

Garin found a couch of rock, a hollow, sandstrewn cleft where, lying at length, small bushes hid him from all observation. Here he stretched himself, pillowed his head upon his arms, and waited to see the princess pass. Time went by, and the morning air brought him sound from the other hand. He parted the bushes and looking east saw approaching a great and gallant troop—lords and knights of Roche-de-FrÊne, coming to greet their princess close within the boundaries of her own land.... They came on with banners—a goodly column and a joyful. Close at hand, he began to single out forms and faces that he knew, and first he saw Stephen the Marshal riding at the head, and then Raimon of Les Arbres, and beside this lord, Aimar de Panemonde. Garin’s heart rejoiced that Aimar lived. He looked fondly upon his brother-in-arms, riding beneath the craggy hill. Many another that he knew he saw. Others he missed, and feared that they did not live or that they lay hurt, for else they would have been here.

The great troop, for all it rode with a singing heart, with exultation and laughter and triumph, had a war-worn look. The men and the horses were gaunt. The men’s eyes seemed yet to be looking on battle sights. Their gestures were angular, energetic and final, their speech short, not flowing. The colour of bronze, the hardness of iron, the edge of steel were yet in presence. It was to be seen that they had known hunger and weariness and desperation, and had withstood with courage. The man stretched upon the rock-edge above the passing numbers felt his communion with them. They were his brothers....

Not only these. As they rode by he saw in vision all the lands of Roche-de-FrÊne and those who peopled them, men and women and children. And the town of Roche-de-FrÊne and its citizens, men and women and children, and all who had defended it. And all the hills and vales of life.... He saw the slain and the hurt and the impoverished and the hearts that bled with loss—the waste fields and the broken walls. He saw work to be done—long work. And when that work was done and there were only scars that did not throb, yet was there work—building and building, though it could not be weighed. He saw as he knew that she saw—and the land became deep and dear to him, and the people became father and mother and child, brother and sister and friend.... “It is a baptism,” said Garin, and covered his eyes with his hands.

The great company went by, lessened in apparent bulk, lessened still upon the westward running road. Its trumpeters sounded their trumpets. Out of the distance came to Garin’s ear an answering fanfare, delicate and far like fairy trumpets. Rising ground and purple wood hid the meeting between the Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne and her barons and valiant knights.

The sun climbed toward the summit. The troubadour lay in the high cleft of the rock, felt the beams, breathed the clear, pure air, hearkened to the sough of the breeze in sere grass and bush. All earth and air were his, and the golden home of warmth and light, the great middle orb whose touch he felt. He waited for sound or sight that should tell him that the princess and her doubled train were coming. It was not long to wait. In the night a light rain had fallen—there was no dust, and the road was softened beneath the horses’ hoofs. The great company appeared now, like a vision, brightened and heightened to the outer eye by strength of the inner. Beauty and might, and sadness and joy, all lights and all shadows, gained a firmer recognition.

Garin, concentrated, watched the company come toward him. Again there echoed the eve of his knighthood, when through the darkness he had kept vigil. But he kept vigil now a more awakened being, with a wider reach and a richer knowledge.

The train came toward him, and now he heard the sound of it, the tread of horses, metallic noises, the human voice, all subdued to a deep murmur as of an incoming sea. This increased until single notes were distinguishable. The form grew larger, then he could see component forms. Music was being made, he saw the great blue banners.... And still he knew that all was a mightier and a brighter thing than yesterday he had known.... Now he saw the Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne riding between Beauvoisin and Stephen the Marshal.

She passed the rock whereon he lay, and he saw a great and high and bright soul.... It passed—all passed. He felt the darkness, but then the starlight.

He stayed yet an hour there in the cleft, with the brown grass about him and overhead the sky like sapphire. Then, descending the crag, he sought his horse in the wood and, mounting, turned his face toward Castel-Noir.

That evening in the black tower Foulque would discuss family fortunes, and how Castel-Noir might be first recovered, then enlarged. Garin listened, spoke when the elder brother paused for him to speak. It seemed that he wished somehow to better the condition of tenants and serfs, to find and teach better methods of living. Foulque jerked aside from that. “We are good masters. Ask any one without this hall!”

“Good masters?... We may be. But—”

Foulque struck at the fire with his crutch. “You are a poet—I am a practical man. Let us leave dreaming!... Raimbaut’s castle will be rebuilt by the next of kin.”

“Dreaming?... What is dreaming?”

Foulque left his chair, and limped to and fro before the huge fireplace. Garin from the settle corner watched him. The light played over both and reddened the ancient hall. “Garin,” said Foulque. “knightly fame is good and fame of a poet is good, and emirs’ ransoms are good—God knows they are good! But when will you wed and so build our house?”

“Ah!” said Garin, “did you ever think, Foulque, of how long may be time?”

Foulque waved his hand. “You should not play with it! You should think of the future! They say that you love one whom you call the Fair Goal—”

But Garin, rising, moved to a deep window, and looking out, breathed the night. “There is the great star in the arm of the cypress!... I used to see that, when I lay in those hot towns of Paynimry.” Nor would he speak again of that manner of building Castel-Noir.

The morrow came and went and the morrow and that morrow’s morrow. December paced by and gave the torch of time to January. January, a cold and dark month, gave the torch to February, a brief and windy one, March had it then, and he had ideas in his head of birds and flowers. April came and the world was green.

The ravaging of the dragon was becoming in Roche-de-FrÊne an old thought. Throughout the winter the Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne and the able people of her lands laboured to redeem well-being and the conditions of growth. Plan and better plan, faint success and greater success; and now when the spring was coming, good ground beneath the feet! The land began to smile. The town of Roche-de-FrÊne, the cathedral and the castle felt the warmth. Bishop Ugo preached the Easter sermon, and he preached a mighty and an eloquent one. You felt lilies and roses come up through it.

Ugo had said at Christmas-tide that he had never doubted the triumph of the right. Questioned at Candlemas, though very gently, by one of the hyperbold, he had answered gravely that Father Eustace, in confession, had acknowledged that he was not certain as to whether Our Blessed Lady of Roche-de-FrÊne had indeed spoken to him. Pride had been in his heart, and the demon himself might have taken dazzling form and spoken! Father Eustace for penance had been sent, barefoot and dumb, to a remote monastery where in his cell he might gain true vision. Easter-tide, Bishop Ugo flowered praise of Roche-de-FrÊne’s princess. That great lady took it with her enigmatical smile.

In the castle-garden Alazais watched the crocus bloom, the hyacinth and the daffodil. Gilles de Valence sang to her, and sometimes Raimon de Saint-RÉmy, or, when no troubadour was there, Elias of Montaudon was brought upon the greensward to sing other men’s verses. Knights came and went. Her ladies made a bright half-ring about her, and she and they and the knights and poets discussed the world under the star of Love.

Sometimes Audiart came into the garden, but not often. There was much that yet was to be done.... She was oftener in the town than in the castle, often away from both, riding far and near in her domain, to other towns and villages and towers. But as the spring increased and the green leaves came upon the trees, order was regained. The sap of life returned to the veins that had been drained, time and place knew again hope and power. The princess looked upon a birthland that had lifted from a pit, and now was sandalled and ready for further journeying. She came oftener now to the garden, and at night, from her chamber in the White Tower, she watched the stars.

In the town whose roofs lay below her, the craftsmen were back at their crafts. Again they were dyeing scarlet and weaving fine webs and working in leather and wax and metal and stone. Merchant and trader renewed their life. Roche-de-FrÊne once more hummed as a hive that produced, not destroyed. It produced values dense and small, but so it learned of values beyond these. Presently the old talk of liberty would spring up, not feared by this princess. When, in late April, she held high court and a great council, Thibaut Canteleu—Master Mayor, clear-eyed and merry—sat, with two of the town’s magistrates, in the council chamber.

On the eve of that council Stephen the Marshal spent an hour with the princess. She made him sit beside her in the White Tower; she spoke to him at length, in a low voice telling a story. Stephen listened with his eyes held by hers, then, when she kept silence, bowed his face upon his hands and sat so for a time. At last he raised his head. “Mine is a plain mind, my Lady Audiart,—only a faithful one! There are many good words, and ‘friend’ is a right good word, a high knight among them, and ‘friendship’ is a noble fief. I take ‘friend’ and ‘friendship’ for my wearing and my estate, my Lady Audiart—aye, and I will wear them knightly, not cravenly, with a melancholy heart! Friend to you and friend to him, and Saint Michael my witness! loyal servant to you both.”

“Stephen, my friend,” answered the princess, “you say true that great liking is a great knight, and lasting friendship is a mighty realm! It plants its own happiness in its own fields.”

She rose, and standing with him at the window, spoke of old things, old long memories that they had in common, spoke of her father, Gaucelm the Fortunate.

The next day she held council, sitting on the dais robed in blue, a gold circlet upon her head, facing her barons and knights-banneret, churchmen who held lands from her, and leaders of the townsmen. That which she had to lay before them was the matter of her marriage....

At Castel-Noir the dark fir trees wore emeralds. The stream had its loud spring music. Nor Foulque nor Garin had been idle through the winter. Back to the black tower and the hamlet had come their men who had fought at Roche-de-FrÊne—Foulque’s men and the men who had come with Garin from the land over the sea. Houses had to be built for these—more fields ploughed and planted. Stables had to be made larger. The road was bad that led from the black tower to the nearest highway; it was remade. When spring came Castel-Noir was in better estate than ever before. Garin spoke of what manner of priest they should bring in—and of some clerk who might be given a house and who could teach.

Raimbaut the Six-fingered had for his fief been man of Montmaure, but for it Montmaure had been man of Roche-de-FrÊne. Now, again, was it only Roche-de-FrÊne’s. Montmaure might look blackly across from his own borders, but that was all.... It seemed that, escheating to the ruling house, the barony was not yet given, for service paid and to be paid, to some lord who should rebuild the castle and bring up the lands that now were waste.... Foulque had hours of speculation as to that. In the hall, of evenings, he looked out of the corners of his eyes at Garin, reading or dreaming by the fire. Who had done greater service, fought better, than Garin? If the princess were truly wise—if she were grateful—

Foulque spoke once on this matter to Garin, but received so absolute a check that his tongue declined to bring it forward again. None the less, his brain kept revolving the notion. To add to Castel-Noir the whole containing fief, from knight alone to become baron, to keep the black tower but to build besides a fair, strong castle—Who at Roche-de-FrÊne, or away from Roche-de-FrÊne, had served more fully than had Garin? Foulque thought with a consuming impatience of how little he seemed to care for wealth and honours.

On the heel of such an hour as this with Foulque, came Aimar de Panemonde. He came with the sheen and beauty of the spring. Foulque saw him from the tower window as he left the fir wood and began to mount the winding road. Behind him were four or five others. All rode noble horses, all were richly clad. It came into Foulque’s head—from where he knew not—that here was an envoy with his company. The little troop seemed to him rich and significant, despatched with knowledge, directed to an end. At once Foulque connected that with Garin—and why again he knew not, save that, and despite his sluggishness in the matter of the fief, fairy things did happen to Garin.

Garin of the Golden Island met his brother-in-arms without the castle gate. Aimar threw himself from his horse. Foulque in the tower above watched the two embrace, then limped down the stair to meet the guest and order the household.... And soon it seemed that Sir Aimar de Panemonde might indeed be considered an envoy! The Princess of Roche-de-FrÊne would have Sir Garin de Castel-Noir return to her court—commanded his presence on the day of Saint Mark.

There were three days to spare. Aimar, having discharged his mission, spent them happily, as did those who had ridden with him. Foulque made talk of the court and the town until—and that was not long—he found that, for some reason that he could not discern, Aimar did not talk readily of these. Ever Foulque wished guests of Castel-Noir to be happy, was courteously minded toward them. This one especially, seeing how great a friend to Garin he had been and was. So Foulque followed the lead of the younger men, and in the hall, after supper, had his reward in stories of the land over the sea—a thousand adventures not before drawn from Garin. Aimar’s followers and as many Castel-Noir men as could crowd into hall, came, too, to listen.

Three days went by. On the morning of the fourth farewells were made. Garin and Aimar passed out of the gate with their following and down the winding road. With Garin was Rainier the squire, and two or three besides. Foulque and all who might watched them go, took the backward-turning wave of the knights’ hands, marked them until they vanished in the fir wood. Foulque went back to hall and began to day-dream of Garin and that fief had that been Raimbaut’s.

The two knights with their following rode through the spring weather. Very sweet it was, earth and sky more fair than might be told.... And so, in the early afternoon, they came in sight of Roche-de-FrÊne.

It was holiday and festival. The people upon the road seemed light-hearted. The scarred plain had been helped, and now spring flung over it a mantle of green. When they came to the hill of Roche-de-FrÊne the people had thickened about them; when they entered by the western gate the town seemed joyous. The folk were abroad and there was to be made out laughter and singing. As they rode through the streets they met again and yet again, and at last continually, recognition. It had a nature that might please the knightliest knight! The marvel of the cathedral rose before them, and the gold of the sunshine and the sweetness of the air took from it a shading of awfulness but gave in return benignancy. They mounted the high street, and now the mighty shape of the castle increased. Sunlight wrapped it, too, and above was the stair of the sky. Black Tower and Eagle Tower, Red Tower and Lion Tower and White Tower—and Garin saw the tree-tops of the garden.... They crossed the moat, entered between Red Tower and Lion Tower. Trumpets were being sounded. Here, too, seemed festival. They dismounted in the outer court—men of rank came about them with the fairest welcome—they were marshalled soon to a rich lodging. Nones were ringing, the spring afternoon slipping away.

An hour passed, another was half run. Garin of the Golden Island, alone save for Rainier in the room that had been given him, heard the knock at the door. “Let him in,” he said to the squire, and Pierol entered. The page gave his message. “Sir Garin de Castel-Noir, the princess rests in the garden. She would speak with you there.” Garin took his mantle and followed.

In the castle garden the fruit trees were abloom. Their clear shadows lay on the sward while the shadows of the taller trees struck against the enclosing walls. Below the watch-tower there was a sheet of daffodils. The many birds of the garden were singing, and the bees yet hummed in the fruit trees. But there was no gay throng other than these, or other winged things, or the selves of the flowers.

It was quiet in the garden, and at first view it seemed a solitude. Then, as he came toward the heart of it, he saw the princess, seated beneath the great tree about which the garden was built. In the droop and sweep of its boughs had been placed a seat of marble finely wrought. Here she sat, robed in blue, and wearing, held in place by a circlet of gold, a veil threaded with gold and silver. But to-day it did not hide her face.

As he came near, “Greeting, friend!” she said, and her voice was thrilling music.

Garin would have bent his knee. But, “No!” she said, “do not do that! That is not to be done again between you and me.” She rose from the marble seat. She stood in flowing robes, on her head the gold circlet of sovereignty, and she looked a mighty princess, knowing her own mind, guiding her own action, freeing her own spirit, unlocking always new treasures of power and love! She came close to him, stood equal with him. Their eyes met, and if the princess sat in hers, the prince sat in his. “Do you know why I have brought you here?” she said: “I have brought you here, Garin of the Golden Island, to ask you if you will marry me?”

... In midsummer, on the Eve of Saint John, they were wed in the cathedral, with great music, pomp, and joy. Afterwards they knelt before the shrine of Our Lady of Roche-de-FrÊne, and there were people who said that it was then that the Blessed Image’s lips moved and there issued the words “Peace and Happiness.” Going, the two passed the pillars raised by Gaucelm of the Star, and coming to the tomb of Gaucelm the Fortunate laid flowers there.... But when their own long reign closed, their land held them in memory as Audiart and Garin the Wise.

THE END